


Triskaidekaphobia

by Crossover_Chick



Series: The Forgotten Vows Verse [7]
Category: American McGee's Alice, Corpse Bride (2005)
Genre: Creepy, Fucked Up, Heavy Angst, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Masturbation, Mind Control, Mind Rape, Mindwiping, Non-Consensual Oral Sex, Not Suitable/Safe For Work, Other, Sexual Content, Sexual Slavery, Swearing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-13
Updated: 2015-04-03
Packaged: 2018-03-17 14:49:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 4
Words: 14,814
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3533393
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Crossover_Chick/pseuds/Crossover_Chick
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Side Story in the Forgotten Vows Verse. Bumby got his claws into Victor for one painful week - but what exactly happened during that time? WARNING: Easily the darkest and creepiest of the Forgotten Vows Verse. Numerous less-than-pleasant things will be alluded to. Read with caution.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Charlie And The Voodoo

October 29th, 1875

Whitechapel, London’s East End, England

6:56 P.M.

"They've been in there an awful long time. . . ."

"I'm huuungry!"

"Pipe down, they'll hear us!"

"Maybe Doctor's killed him! Like in the dreadfuls!"

"Nah, wouldn't take that long to hide a body."

"How would you know?"

"I'm huuuuungry!"

" _Shush_ , Jane!"

Charlie Tonkers fidgeted as he listened to the hubbub around him, punctuated by Jane's regular complaints about the emptiness of her belly. He couldn't blame her for whining – he was damn near starving himself. Dinnertime was supposed to have been an hour ago, but with their regular cook off wandering the streets in a hallucinatory daze, the rabble of children populating the Houndsditch Home for Wayward Youth was forced to rely on the goodness of the proprietor, Dr. Angus Bumby, for their meals. And the good doctor hadn't been seen since about mid-afternoon – Reggie had spotted him disappearing into his bedroom with a very serious expression. "Asked him what he was about, and he said our old toff needed 'specialized therapy,'" he'd reported shortly afterward. "So we wasn't to disturb him 'less somebody got their head cut off."

"Specialized therapy?" Charlie had parroted as the others stared in confusion. The term wasn't unfamiliar – almost every child who got adopted out went through a few rounds before being shipped off into the wild. Reggie and Charlie themselves were starting on their journey through the process. But – "Why's _Victor_ need that? He's got a mum and dad."

Reggie's response had been a shrug. "He just told me to keep away until he was done. You wanna knock and risk a smack on the rear, you're welcome to it."

Charlie hadn't wanted to risk it, and so the children had dispersed to fill the time until their doctor's reappearance. That is, until the clock had announced the evening meal, and they'd gathered in the dining room only to find not just empty plates, but no plates at all. A raid of the kitchen hadn't turned up anything they could eat except stale digestive biscuits, and nobody knew where exactly Dr. Bumby usually ordered dinner from. And the only street salesman nearby was the one who put rat droppings in his custards. After a half-hour's impatient waiting, their grumbling bellies had eventually driven them up here, clustering around the bedroom door and exchanging wild speculation while trying to work up enough courage to interrupt the doctor in his work. "Nobody's taken this long before," Dennis groused, rubbing his stomach.

Charlie decided not to point out that Dennis, being new, wouldn't really know for sure. "Victor and Dr. Bumby don't get along much," he said instead. "Butt heads like rams. Could be he ain't listening to to whatever Doctor's telling him."

"Yeah, Doctor's always going on about Victor giving him trouble," Elsie nodded. "He's a stubborn swell and no mistake."

"I'm _huuuungry_!!"

"We all are, Jane! Now shut your yap!"

"Is this about that dead lady of his again?" Dennis demanded. "The corpse bride?"

"Yeah, probably," Reggie confirmed. "Why it's takin' so long, I bet – Doctor's likely got him strapped to a chair in there until he fesses up that walking dead people ain't real once and for all."

Abigail snickered. "Or maybe Doctor caught him digging up another wife. We ain't that far from the old churchyard. Musta went looking for another never-was-a-bride, hopin' he'd be better than nothing."

Charlie frowned at her as the rest of the children giggled over the prospect. Why did Abigail have to be so mean about that all the time? Yeah, sure, it was fun to tease the old toff a bit, but – truth be told, Charlie had never cared as much about Victor supposedly being a "necrophiliac" (what a funny long word) as everybody else. So the swell thought he'd nearly married a dead lady – so what? It made him mad as a hatter, yes – practically as mad as Alice, in fact – but it wasn't hurting anybody. In fact, Victor was one of the nicest mad people Charlie had ever known. Despite the regular mocking and teasing, he was almost always kind to them – helping clear dishes and wipe noses and even tuck them in if requested. And he regularly shared stories about his Land of the Dead – a fact Charlie very much appreciated. He liked hearing about the place – all the wild parties and friendly corpses and suchlike. 

It made him feel better about what had happened to his old dad. 

The little boy suppressed a shudder as the thought wormed its way into his head again. Bumby had worked hard on him to erase it, but something like seeing your beloved father's corpse hanging limp and cold from a ratty old rope in the prison courtyard stuck hard in the mind. Same with your mum's vicious screaming as she beat the shit out of you for the third time that week – though happily _that_ was finally starting to fade. He could barely recall most of the arse-kickings he'd received from the rotten smelly bat these days. And while he was aware his dad had come home during one of them and proceeded to break Mum's neck in trying to save him – Ollie had shown him the article in the _Illustrated –_ that incident had been thoroughly wiped from his brain's crevices. Which suited Charlie just fine. He didn't want to think of his dad as a filthy rotten killer – he wanted him to stay the man who'd read him picture books at bedtime and snuck him sweets before dinner.Of course, remembering those moments had a different sting to them, but Victor's stories helped ease the ache. Yeah, his dad was dead, and he weren't likely to see him again anytime soon.But at least now he could take comfort in the idea that Bob Tonker was living the high life (uh, so to speak) down below, sipping beer with his buddies and telling stories about the "best little boy in the world" he'd left up above. It was a real nice thought, and he couldn't blame Victor for digging in his heels against Dr. Bumby's attempts to take them away. 

Or getting so sour whenever Abigail said something like that with her evil little snigger. "He's sweet on Alice and you know it," he said, folding his arms and glaring at the pigtailed witch. "He don't need to dig up anybody else."

"Yeah, all right," Abigail allowed, rolling her eyes. "But it ain't like Alice is ever gonna be sweet on him. Maybe he got tired of waiting."

"Could of thought Alice was dead too, and was looking for her there," Elsie offered up. "I mean, we don't know she's not."

"We don't know she is either," Charlie replied with feeling, fingers pulling anxiously at his sleeves. Alice dead – now that was almost a worse thought than his dad swinging from the rope. Maybe she'd be happier if she was Downstairs, but Charlie's stomach turned at the very thought. Alice was the closest thing he'd had to a real mum all his life. She was mean sometimes, sure, and liked to talk to nothing, but she made their beds and got their food and was the best storyteller in the East End – even better than Victor. No matter how much she moaned and complained, it was clear she still gave a damn about the rabble, which was more than what most anybody else in the city gave. And she'd lost her whole family when she was small, just like the rest of them. Most of the others seemed to forget that a lot, but Charlie didn't. He felt bad for her most of the time – from what he'd heard, she'd had a proper swell's life before her house had burned down. No wonder she was so cranky now that she had to live here. He hated it too, and he'd been born in this muck. Plus, he had to admit, he was pretty sure she liked him a little better than the others. Maybe 'cause he tried to pick up his toys when he was done and kept his bed neat, or because she felt sorry for him after what happened to his pop. Either way, she was easier on him than the others when he dropped his clothes on the floor or complained about the food. He didn't want her to go away and have to deal with someone new who might be even meaner, without all the good bits. "She's good at staying alive."

"Yeah, well, if both Victor and the thickies haven't caught up with her _–_ "

And then the door before them abruptly opened, cutting Elsie off as surely as a pair of shears to her tongue. From the blackness within emerged a rather smug-looking Dr. Bumby, followed closely by Victor. "Now then – what?" The doctor frowned at the crowd staring up at him. "What are you all doing here? I said I wasn't to be disturbed."

" _I'm huuuuuuuuungry!_ " Jane wailed, head tilted so far back only her enormous mouth was visible.

"We didn't want to disturb you, Doctor," Abigail said, tugging at one of her braids. "It's just – supper's come and gone and nobody was around to cook."

"And the biscuits are better as skipping rocks," Ollie added, wrinkling his nose.

"Really?" Dr. Bumby consulted his pocket watch. Charlie quickly averted his eyes as the key dangling at the end of the fob chain slipped free of the pocket and started slowly swinging. Would be awful embarrassing to go to sleep in the middle of the hallway. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see a bunch of the others doing the same. "Goodness, I had no idea I'd taken that long. . .my apologies, children," he said, dropping the watch back into his waistcoat. "But Thirteen and I had some rather intense therapy to perform."

"Thirteen?" Charlie turned his gaze to the figure of Victor Van Dort, still standing behind the doctor. For the first time, he noticed the old toff looked – different. Oh, he was as tall and thin and pale as ever, but instead of his usual fidgeting and fussing, he was just – staring straight ahead, arms limp at his sides, eyes blank as a doll's. His clothing was rumpled too – which wasn't _that_ weird, but usually it was his tie who got that treatment, not his pants. Had he and Dr. Bumby gotten into a wrestling match? The thought was amusing, but  looking at their resident swell's empty face, Charlie didn't feel like laughing. "What'd you do to Victor?"

"Thirteen now, Charlie," Dr. Bumby replied in a gently scolding tone. "And I've finally eliminated his delusions." He grinned, pride coming off him in waves. "He's cured at last, children. Isn't that wonderful?"

The children glanced at each other. "How come he ain't doing much of anything, then?" Reggie asked with a frown.

"Well, it was a _very_ intense session. . . don't worry about it, though," Dr. Bumby said, putting on his "professional" voice. "I've only done what's best for him, and it's not like he'll be leaving my care anytime soon. He'll be taking over Alice's duties until I hire a suitable replacement. The ad's already in the paper."

"What about the thick – the orderlies?" Elsie quickly corrected herself. "They're doing some of what Alice did, right?"

"Oh, those two. . .I'll be sending them back to Rutledge as soon as they finish their latest wander through the streets," Dr. Bumby said with a dismissive wave. "They've proven utterly useless at their assigned tasks. I don't need them increasing our food budget. Thirteen will be able to do everything they did and more, with much less complaining."

"But don't his parents want him back?" Abigail asked, flipping her pigtail behind her shoulder. "Ain't you supposed to send him home once he's fixed?"

"Ah. . . ." Dr. Bumby looked back at Victor – Thirteen, Charlie reminded himself. There was something funny about the way the doctor's eyes raked over his patient. The look was – possessive, like he was writing 'mine' over Vict-Thirteen's skin with his gaze (like Elsie had done with her favorite dolls). And there was something else too, something he couldn't put a name to but which made his skin go creepy-crawly. "Well, we need him for the time being. . .and there's a few last tweaks I'd like to make. I'm sure his mother will understand." He touched Vic-Thirteen's shoulder. "Thirteen?"

"Yes, sir?" The hairs on the back of Charlie's neck stood on end. Bloody hell, he didn't even _sound_ like Victor anymore. He sounded – "wind-up" was the best way he could think of to describe it. As if Thirteen was just reciting from a list of words somebody had shoved into his head, instead of picking them out for himself. No more thought involved than a dolly.

"Accompany me to the kitchen. We need to figure out what to give the children for their supper." Dr. Bumby glanced around the group. "The rest of you, find some way to entertain yourselves until I call you to table. Come along, Thirteen."

"Yes, sir." The pair of them headed down the hall – Bumby walking at his usual pace, Thirteen following at a smooth, even step that was so antithetical to Victor Van Dort you'd think the world would have up and exploded in protest.

The children stared after the two, anxious silence hanging heavy over their heads. "I dun like this," Ollie finally said, twisting his hands together.

Charlie didn't either. "I thought only us got numbers," he said, eyes darting to the placards hanging around most of his compatriots' necks. "And only 'cause we don't have folks yet. Is he gonna make his parents call him Thirteen?"

"Maybe," Elsie said, fiddling with the ties of her bonnet. "Dr. Bumby's awful bossy."

"Did you see the way he was walking?" Dennis asked. He put his arms at his sides and did his best to imitate it. "Like a clockwork solider. Ain't he supposed to be tripping over his own feet all the time?"

There was a general nodding of heads. "Guess it's okay he's not bumping into things, but. . . ." Abigail wrinkled her nose. "What we gonna laugh at now? Normal ain't funny. Normal's just – normal."

"Who's gonna tell us stories?" Jane asked, finally distracted from her rumbling stomach. "I wanted to hear more about Miss Plum."

"Will he still come up and tuck us in if we ask?" Reggie wondered. "Or give us crayons and paper to draw? What about the piano, who's gonna take care of it?"

"He sounds creepy," one of the new girls, Ann, piped up, frowning. "He don't sound like a person no more. He sounds – dead."

Charlie shivered. Yes. . .that was an even better word than "wind-up" to describe Thirteen's voice. You expected something like that when it came from bakelite and clockwork. When it came out of flesh and blood – suddenly Charlie was reminded of Old Mr. Bangers, who'd come from the islands and rented the flat just below the Tonkers'. Charlie had often gone to visit him when his mum was drunk off her arse, sampling the exotic food he cooked and begging for stories from faraway places. And Old Mr. Bangers had delivered, frightening him half to death with tales of evil voodoo priests who lurked in the shadows of the shanty towns and sugar plantations, killing chickens and stealing souls. "Not even death can save you from them," he'd said, his remaining teeth shining like stars in the black cavern of his mouth. "If you've a strong body, sometimes they'll call upon their loa to poison you and make you sicken and die. And once you've been dumped in the ground, they'll steal into your grave and bring your body back, empty and cold, to harvest their crops and do their will. I've seen it – fields worked by men who don't sweat, men with corpse eyes and no songs left in them. Only hope you have is to know your own voodoo, to be able to call upon your own loa to protect you – or pay a decent man to do it." A far cry from the happy-go-lucky dead that Victor had enjoyed telling them about. Had Dr. Bumby done that to Victor to make him into Thirteen? Quietly killed him and then used dark magic and spirits to make the body walk around without any actual soul? Boy, he hoped not. "M-maybe it'll wear off," he said, more to comfort himself than out of any actual conviction.

The other children looked as dubious as he felt. "Don't wear off any of the other numbers," Abigail pointed out.

"Y-yeah, but – that's before they go to their families! Parents wouldn't keep 'em like that, would they?" _Though. . .Mum probably would have liked me better if I'd just sat and stared at the wall when she didn't want me around._ _. . ._

"Not his parents," Reggie agreed with a knowing nod. "His mum'll yell if she don't like him like that. She's louder and meaner than Dr. Bumby."

That was an oddly heartening thought. Charlie hadn't liked Mrs. Van Dort when she'd visited – she was ugly and bulgy and squawky, like an overfed, ill-tempered turkey – but if she could make Dr. Bumby turn Thirteen back into Victor, she'd be all right in his book. "Maybe we can write a letter asking her," he said. "Where'd he live again?"

The children looked at each other. "Uh – Button-ville?" Elsie said uncertainly.

"Somewhere far far away," Ollie mumbled. "Take ages to write her. Doctor probably wouldn't let us either."

"He don't have to know," Charlie declared, hands on his hips.

Abigail shook her head. "He always finds out," she said, in a tone that brooked no argument. "Tried hiding one of my mum's old hankies from him once. Set it on fire right in front of me." She sighed. "Not worth getting a whooping for it – or worse. Ain't nothin' we can do, 'cept hope Thirteen ain't too scary."

With that, the group broke up, with everyone wandering away in different directions to try and distract themselves from the settling gloom. Charlie stayed where he was for a moment, then headed with purpose into the boys' room to procure crayon and paper. He didn't care what Abigail had said. _"World don't change from people just sittin' on their behinds, my boy,"_ his dad had told him once.  The others could be giver-uppers all they liked. He was at least gonna try.

***

_"Specialized therapy" is rotten and mean and I ain't gonna let Doctor do it to me anymore._

Charlie sat on the top bunk of the bed he shared with Dennis, kicking his feet and glaring at the wall. Lunchtime had come and gone, and along with some rather icky-looking fish from the Billingsgate docks it had brought to the young boy the conviction that something had to be done about Thirteen, and soon. The former swell was just as creepy as he'd been when he'd first emerged from Dr. Bumby's bedroom – maybe even more so after a day of watching him sweep floors and serve food. Everything about him was unsettling – from the mechanical precision in his walk to the dull, blank glaze in his eyes. He never seemed to look at you anymore – more through you. And his voice was still dead as a doornail. He didn't speak much, thankfully, but the pure _emptiness_ in his tone was enough to keep anyone from saying more than "Good morning" to him. Charlie had had nightmares the night before of Victor staying like this forever, flesh rotting away as he walked about the Home, until he was nothing but a skeleton. _Maybe Dr. Bumby does know voodoo. I wish I could take Victor to_ _O_ _ld Mr. Bangers to get him cured. . . ._

There was no chance of that, however. Abigail's warning about sneaking a letter under the doctor's nose had proved well-founded. Charlie had managed to get a few words down yesterday afternoon, but after dinner Bumby had made a surprise visit to the boys' room and caught him in the act of writing. He'd forced Charlie to turn over the paper, laughed at the little boy's scribbled pleas for Mrs. Van Dort to come to the Home straightaway, patted his head with a (supposedly) reassuring, "Don't worry, I'll let Mrs. Van Dort know all about her son" – and then very deliberately had torn the letter in two. "You shouldn't trouble yourself over such things. Good boys know their place after all." You would have to be a dim one indeed not to pick up on what the doctor _really_ meant, so Charlie had nodded and apologized and gone to bed early so to stay on Bumby's good side. If he hadn't managed to slip a  couple of sentences on a scrap of paper past the doctor, there was no way he could drag Victor off to his old flat to see a magic man. The mere thought of what might happen should Bumby find him doing that sent shivers up and down his spine.

Still, Charlie didn't like just sitting around on his bottom either. Alice having disappeared into the twisted back alleys of London was bad enough – having Victor not be there while standing right in front of you was worse. Already Charlie missed the enthusiastic tone with which Victor had told his stories, the scratching of his quill as he made pretty pictures, even the way he'd tugged and twisted his tie whenever he was anxious. And what if Alice came home and wanted to see him? Perhaps he wasn't her "beau," like the fancy people said, but not even Abigail could deny they were best friends. Victor was the only one Charlie had ever seen make Alice real honest-to-God laugh. Thirteen? He'd probably make her cry instead. And that was a very, very sad thought. _I gotta find a way to make him be Victor again,_ Charlie decided,  climbing down from the bunk and heading into the hall. _Dr. Bumby couldn't have fixed him_ that _good, right? Takes ages with us –_ _how could he do a grown-up in just a few hours? No, t_ _here's gotta be a way._

He roamed the Home in search of the old toff, poking into every door he dared. Eventually, he found his quarry in the kitchen, washing the dishes from lunch. "Hi!" Charlie greeted him, forcing himself to be chipper in case it helped. "How are you?"

Thirteen didn’t respond – didn't even look up. He merely continued with his task – picking up plates from the water, wiping them with a soapy rag, and then setting them to the side to dry. Charlie watched him for a bit. Over and over the pattern repeated, smooth and unchanging. _He really_ is _like a clockwork soldier now,_ the little boy thought with a sh udder. _'Cept not fun at all._ “Hello?”

Still no response – just that steady rhythm of clicks and clacks from the dishes. Charlie shifted from foot to foot, wondering if he should just leave. He didn't know nothing about voodoo, or whatever it was Dr. Bumby had done. What good could he do just standing here and talking to somebody who wouldn't even look at him? Who seemed no more aware than a doll?

But then, what harm could he do either? Wouldn't be right to give up almost before he'd started. His dad would have tanned his hide for that (would he? Charlie couldn't remember anymore, though that was no surprise). And the only other options he had were coloring and messing about with the dollhouse – neither of which appealed to him at the moment. No, he wasn't going to quit until he'd given it a good Dolly Sisters kick up the rump. “Dr. Bumby says he’s cured you,” he said, scrambling up onto the counter to sit beside the sink. Some spilled water soaked into his pants, but he ignored it. “Says he wiped all the nasty thoughts right out of your head. That true?”

Thirteen nodded. Charlie grinned – progress at last! “So you don’t remember your corpse bride?" he continued. "Think you said her name was – Emma?" He scrunched his face in thought. "No, Emily! Emily Somethingorother 'cause you were too silly to ask.”

For the first time, the hands paused. Thirteen looked up from his work, blinking, a searching look in his eyes. Charlie held his breath hopefully. Then the blip passed, and Thirteen resumed his task, face blank again. “Corpse brides don’t exist,” he replied in that cold, dead tone. "I was wrong to think so. I need only worry about my purpose."

A chill shot up Charlie’s spine. The way Thirteen had said that last – suddenly, all he could think about was his old bunkmate, Farley. Farley had been "smart-mouthed" and “a troublemaker,” according to the grown-ups, but Charlie had liked him – not in the least because he was always stealing candy and didn’t mind sharing a piece or two. Dr. Bumby had worked on him for months (around the time Alice had arrived in fact), and right before he’d gone off to live with some bloke he’d started acting – well, like this. Just doing his chores without a mind to anybody else, staring right through you if you tried to talk to him, and muttering things about his "purpose." Doctor had started calling Farley “Nine” around that time too, in accordance with his paper bib. He'd said it was all for Farley's own good, but Charlie still hadn't liked it in the slightest. Farley didn’t get in trouble anymore, yeah, and he didn’t cry in the night over his mum tossing him on the doorstep, but he'd also stopped coloring, and making stupid jokes, and playing tag in the courtyard. It was like somebody had taken a big spoon and scooped out all his – “Farleyness," Charlie supposed. He hadn't thought of voodoo then – Dr. Bumby had kept telling them it was normal, and at any rate he'd been distracted by the start of Alice telling them Wonderland stories – but now, seeing Thirteen parroting those exact same words. . . . _Please, please let Farley be okay_ _!_ “You thought they did for a long time,” he pressed, a new urgency in his tone. "You told us all about it."

“I was confused,” Thirteen replied in that blank voice, rubbing crud off the tines of a couple of forks. "It no longer matters. The past is past. I needn't think about it."

"But – but what about that other girl? Victoria? You said she saw it all too."

Again a slight pause, a few blinks – then nothing. "I don't know anyone named Victoria," Thirteen finally said, picking up another plate.

“What?” Charlie was getting really frustrated now. "So, all those stories you told us and Alice were lies?"

CRASH!

Shards of porcelain abruptly filled the air as the plate smashed against the side of the sink. “Oi!” Charlie cried, shielding his face with his arms. “Doctor will have your neck for–”

He stopped. Thirteen – no, Victor, he weren't going to call him by a number unless he had to – was staring straight ahead, eyes wide and unfocused, face somehow paler than before. “Al. . .ice?” he said slowly, and his voice was – it wasn't the corpse voice of before, but it was still funny, like – like it was a swimmer kicking against the Thames, looking for the air. . . . He reached up and pressed a wet hand against his forehead, apparently heedless of the dishwater trickling down his nose. “Alice?” he repeated, but now he sounded – frightened? Worried? Charlie hopped off the counter, eying the door as he shuffled his feet. What did he do now? He'd gotten Victor to stop sounding so creepy, so hooray there, but he didn't know what came next – 

“What’s going on in here?”

Dr. Bumby appeared in the doorway, frowning. “Charlie, you know better than to–” he started, then caught sight of Victor’s expression. “Thirteen?”

Victor turned anxious eyes to him, breath coming in hard bursts. “I – w-what – you – Alice, w-where’s–”

Dr. Bumby was across the room in two strides, grabbing Victor’s wrist and pulling him away from the sink. “I think we need another session,” he said, and Charlie swore he heard just the tiniest note of _fear_ in the doctor’s voice. But how could that be? Dr. Bumby wasn’t supposed to be scared of nothing! He'd said so himself! “Charlie, go play with the others.”

"But–"

"Go!"

With that, Dr. Bumby dragged a bewildered-looking Victor out the door. Charlie stared after them, his stomach doing flip-flops. Oh no. . .that wasn't what he'd wanted at all. What was Bumby going to do to Victor? What was Bumby going to do to _him_? He was in trouble, that was for sure, but how bad? Whooping bad? Run away before he caught you bad? And what about Victor? Had he actually helped the old toff at all? Or had he just made things worse? "All I wanted was to make him better. . . ."

He stayed where he was for a good five minutes, shifting from foot to foot as he tried to decide what to do. _Might as well just do as Doctor told me, I guess,_ he finally thought. _Like to follow 'em, see if I can stop the voodoo 'fore it starts, but Bumby'd probably spot me and I'd just get deeper in hot water – or worse. And I can't run away either, 'less I want my belly rumbling more than normal and no bed._ _Should at least tell Reggie and Abigail and the rest what happened. Maybe if they know how to knock him back to himself, we can save him after all._ Worrying his lip with his teeth, he hurried back upstairs to report.

***

It wasn't until right before dinner that he saw either Dr. Bumby or Victor again. He was in the boys' room, picking up the cards from where Reggie had thrown them all over the floor – he was gonna give Ollie a smack for falling for "Wanna play 52-pickup?" – when he saw a familiar tall figure pass by the doorway out of the corner of his eye. "Victor?"

Victor didn't reply. Charlie tossed the cards on the bed and hurried to catch up with him – then stumbled to a stop as he got a better look at the old toff's face. Blank and dead again, without a flicker of the life he'd seen over the sink. Charlie scowled, furious. Darn Bumby and his voodoo! Well, he knew what to do now – and so did the others, even if they were probably too chickenshit to try it. He was just about to run to Victor's side and say Alice's name again – 

When a shadow fell over him, and he looked up into the glittering glasses of Dr. Bumby. 

Charlie gulped. Hoo boy – the doctor did _not_ look happy. Charlie recognized that shade of red from when he’d scolded Alice and Victor for dancing. _Maybe I should just run for it? No, he'd catch me right quick. Act like nothing's wrong and he might not do more than shout._ "Hi, Dr. Bumby," he said, putting on his best smile as he turned. “Is Victor–”

The slap came completely without warning, leaving his cheek a stinging bright pink. “ _Never_ mention that _whore’s_ name in this house again,” Dr. Bumby snarled, eyes ablaze. “Do you understand me? Any hint of it, and you'll have the courtyard as your bed for a night! Without supper!" He grabbed Charlie's shoulders and gave him a hard shake. "And get it through your thick skull – it’s _Thirteen_ , not Victor!”

With that, he stalked off, grumbling to himself. Charlie gaped after him, one hand half-covering, half-probing the forming bruise on his face.

Well. So much for forgetting the beatings Mum used to give him.


	2. Jack and the Swell

October 31st, 1875

Whitechapel, London’s East End, England

2:11 P.M.

_All right, got Marybelle workin' those idiots at the Flaming Stallion, and Suzanne over in the meat-packer's street. Should pull in a good pound or two – and if Suzie can wrangle me a fresh steak, well, might let her keep sixpence for herself. Now, Josie, she oughta be in the docks – and better not be slippin' any of her pay to that fat cunt Sharpe! Tan her hide good if I catch her doin' that again! Ugh, women – you have a nice little arrangement that suits the both of you, hand in glove, then the bitch shows her true colors and you have to put her back in her place. Can't believe that after half a year of obliging her with my company, Sharpe starts acting like I'm shortin' her with the dough! Only taking my fair share! Uppity whore. . .and I can't even give her another proper talkin'-to 'cause every time I go down Billingsgate way I end up having to slap a wanker over the earhole for asking me about my "favorite swell!" This is rich, it really is – one fucking surprise punch, and my reputation's suddenly ragged 'round the edges! Time was I commanded a bit of respect around here. Now people snort and snigger, and it's all that rich bugger's fault. Worse, I can't even pay him back right and proper for the insult! Slipperier than the fish his pop cans and no mistake! You screwed up good with this one, God. Tell me, what's that piece of shit from the "right" side of the tracks done to get to be so lucky? Oh, if I could, I'd –_

“Jack?”

Jack Splatter blinked as he was abruptly tugged out of his thoughts. Squashing his first instinct to tell whoever was bothering him to fuck off, he turned his head to spy Dr. Angus Bumby standing by the archway that lead to and from the Whitechapel marketplace. "Could I bother you for just a few moments?" he continued with a pleasant smile, leaning casually against the pitted and crumbling brick.

“What about?” Jack asked, frowning. He and Bumby were only vaguely acquainted – he knew the doctor had a reputation among the snobs of the city as some sort of miracle-worker for the mind, but he was more familiar with the man as a shrewd back-alley dealer in certain fleshy goods. Jack had never partaken of the doctor's stock – not to his taste – but he would gladly admit that the fellow knew how to make a pound. They'd argued once or twice, mostly about territory and that rotten swell, but other than that, Jack couldn't say he held Bumby any particular ill will. Which was more than he could say for most of the East End, honestly.

Bumby glanced back through the arch, in the direction of his base of operations. “I have a gift for you. If you’d care to accept.”

Jack snorted. “Not really keen on your preferred age range, Angus.”

“Oh no,” Bumby returned with a wicked smile. "I can assure you that Master Van Dort is most definitely of age."

Jack's eyes went as wide as saucers. “Master Van – hang on. You’re giving me the bleedin’ swell?!” This couldn't be. After those long lectures he'd gotten from both the police and Bumby himself about leaving Can Dort alone, every missed or squandered opportunity to set things straight. . .was his longed-for revenge being delivered right into his lap? _What a day to leave the cleaver at the Elephant’s Elbow!_ "You told me he was off-limits – that his folks would be able to buy my neck for the noose for sure if I made an example of him. What, you make 'em forget he exists?"

“I've been considering the possibility,” Bumby admitted, standing up straight and brushing a few reddish slivers from his coat. “But not yet – and I'd like to keep him alive myself, so I politely ask you to keep your more murderous impulses in check. But he’s yours in every other way for an afternoon. If you wish.”

Ah. Well, wasn't perfect, but it was better than nothing. “Yeah, I wish,” Jack said, a nasty grin stretching across his mouth as he slapped his hands together. “Where’s the fucking toff, then?”

“Back at the Home – come and I'll show him to you.” Bumby turned on his heel and started down the street. Jack followed, knuckles itching. This was going to be sweet. _Ahh, to see the look on that prissy snob's face before I cave it in. . . ._

It was only a short walk to the front gate of the Houndsditch Home For Wayward Youth. Despite his impatience to be inside, Jack couldn't help but note a few changes made to the street. "Finally stuck in that station, huh?"

"Yes, and about damn time too," Bumby said, the gate creaking under his hand. "Though I think there's been a mistake with the name – the workers call it Moorgate, but I'm quite certain I've seen another station by that name on the map. . .well, whatever. It'll make ferrying my patients to and fro much easier, that's for certain." He gave Jack a calculatedly bland smile. "So many good homes, and so few children to service them."

Jack chuckled. "Why I stick to havin' my girls walk the streets," he commented as they mounted the steps and entered the front foyer. "Sales block ain't worth the bother to me. Though while we're on the subject, where's the little stinkers, then?"

"Oh, most of them are out playing in the courtyard," Bumby said carelessly, straightening a sampler as they went past on their way upstairs. Jack snorted as he read it – " _Home Safe Home._ _"_ _Really go in for the irony, don't you_ _D_ _oc?_ "A few are in their rooms, but they shouldn't bother us. I've made it quite clear we are not to be disturbed."

"Good." Jack shook his head. "I don't know how you stand 'em, Angus. If it was me, I'd be for the looney bin before I ever got 'em off my hands."

"They do have a talent for trying my patience some days – Charlie and Abigail in particular," Bumby confessed as they reached the second floor landing. "But I've always had a way with children. And their eventual worth on the market more than makes up for any annoyance they may inflict on me beforehand." He rounded the corner and opened his office door. “Here we are.”

Having never been in the doctor's home before, Jack took half a second to give the place a once-over. It wasn't bad – wallpaper was shabby as hell, and one of the windows was cracked, but the furniture looked good and solid, and it didn't smell like stale beer or piss. Certainly better than the one-up one-down he called home most nights. And sure enough, there was Van Dort, standing by the desk, staring off into space. Jack cracked his knuckles, then started toward him, ready to give him a smack in the gabber he wouldn't soon forget. "All right, swell, you and me got a score to – to. . . ."

His feet slowed to a halt about the same time his voice did. Something was wrong here. For starters, Van Dort hadn’t reacted to them coming in at all. Jack had expected him to yelp and make a break for it, like he did most times they tangled. But no – he'd just stayed where he was, as if the pimp wasn't even worth his attention anymore. His face was also eerily blank – not a lick of expression in it. Jack squinted at him, puzzled. He wasn't even staring into space, really – more just – staring. Like he'd died suddenly and Bumby had decided to stuff and display the corpse. Jack gave him a poke. “Swell?”

Van Dort didn’t even blink. “Ah – yes,” Bumby chuckled. “I would have warned you, but it's not prudent to discuss these things too openly on the street. Ears everywhere you look, after all. . . . But it’s Thirteen now, Jack.”

“Thirteen?” Jack stared at Van Dort in astonishment. “You mean – he’s like the kids you shove out onto the street? Ain’t got nothing in his head but cobwebs?”

“Exactly," Bumby said, relishing Jack's surprise. He walked around the pimp and caressed Van Dort's cheek. "My greatest triumph. He fought me – oh, he fought like no one else has. He made me sweat. But all that struggle, all that irritation, all that cursing of his name just made his final shattering all the sweeter. Oh, if only you'd been there when he finally broke. . . .” He grinned at the young man’s expressionless face. “No matter. You'll get what you want. Consider it an act of apology for my earlier words forbidding your interference with my patients." He patted the young man's shoulder. "Thirteen?” 

Van Dort finally moved, turning his head slightly to regard the doctor. “Mr. Splatter here is allowed to do whatever he wants to you. Beatings, bloody nose, broken bones – whatever he desires. You treated him quite abominably before, and now he’s going to have his revenge. Understood?”

“Yes, sir.” Bloody hell, not even Van Dort’s voice sounded the same. It was like he was some sort of wind-up doll. Jack did his best to hide a chill.

“Very good.” Bumby stepped back and extended a hand. “All yours, Jack.”

Van Dort turned to face him again. Jack forced himself to meet those dulled eyes. This felt like a scene out of one of the more "mystical" dreadfuls, the kind with vampires and shit. The bugger certainly looked like he'd been drained of all his life. Which was actually not a bad way to describe what Bumby did to those little rotters in his care. . .but it was one thing to see snot-nosed brats on the block, or being dragged home by an eager customer. It was another to have one of them – somebody a lot closer to your own age – just _watching_ you. To see up close what happened when you took all the thoughts out of a fellow's head and replaced them with empty fluff. Damn, if only he'd blink. . . .

_Remember what he did to you, Jack,_ the pimp told himself, trying his best to ignore that empty gaze. _Remember how he showed you up in front of all of Billingsgate_ _– and got a hero's cheer for it_ _. Remember how he made you look like an idiot on your own bloody turf._ _Remember how he convinced that cat to nearly rip your face off._ _Remember how he got the damn_ police _to actually throw a nasty word in your direction!_ _You used to be the king of these streets, and now –_ _!_ _He got off for all of it too, without even breaking a sweat. Think it's time we broke a lot more than that!_ “Fucking toff,” he spat, shoving the young man's shoulder. Van Dort wobbled, but stayed where he was. “Fucking cocksniping spunk bucket!" He slammed his hands into Van Dort's chest, this time knocking him back a couple of steps. "Egg-suckin' duded-up gutter trash, that's what you are! Swanning around, thinkin' you're the prince of these streets! Well, you're not – you're just a goddamn pretty boy who threw sixes a few times!" He stomped, and just missed the swell's absurdly tiny foot. "I should kill you for what you did to me! By the time I'm done, you'll be wishin' I did! Nobody fucking nobbles Jack Splatter!”

Van Dort didn't say a word – just stared at him with those doll-dead eyes. With a growl, Jack drew his fist back, prepared to knock all the bastard’s teeth out –

And stopped, his fury petering out just as quick as it had come. This wasn't right. This wasn't what he'd wanted at all. He sighed and dropped his arm. “Sorry, Angus,” he said, shaking his head. “It’s – it’s no good if he just _stands_ there. Feel like I'm beating up a dressmaker's dummy.”

Bumby frowned. “Ah – I'm afraid I didn't consider that," he confessed. "I _could_ have him react, if you like. It wouldn't take long to implant the suggestions.”

Jack thought over the offer. It would certainly help the heebie-jeebies he was getting from those eyes ( _blink, damn you_ ). . .but. . . . “Nah, I’d be able to tell it was just play-actin'. He wouldn’t really remember, and that’s no good.”

“Hmmm.” Bumby drummed his fingers against his chin. “Well – he’s available to service you sexually, if you wish. I haven’t had him long, but he’s a very fast learner.” The doctor winked. “That mouth of his is brilliant. You won’t be disappointed.”

Jack shook his head again, rather more rapidly. “Never had a thing for blokes. Won't say he doesn't look kind of like a girl, but – ain’t the same.” _And like hell am I sticking my cock in anything that much like a corpse._ He shrugged and tipped his hat. “Sorry, Angus. Appreciate the thought, though. And hey – if you want to give him an extra smack or fuck for me. . . .”

Bumby smiled lecherously. “I’d be delighted to. Sorry it didn't work out like I'd intended. But that is the way of the world.” He wandered over to his desk. "I suppose I should let you get back to managing your whores. Goodness knows I have plenty to do myself. Do you mind seeing yourself out?"

“Not a problem,” Jack said, amused. Funny how someone who held a candle to the Devil – and sold him nippers for his pleasure – could turn around and act like he lived in the best toffken of the West End. "Have fun with the paperwork."

"Oh, thank you," Bumby replied, words oozing with sarcasm. "The price one pays for respectability."

"Why I've never bothered." Jack turned to go, then thought of a question. After all, he hadn't seen one of his other favorite people hanging around this shithole either. “Hey – you ever find Al–”

Bumby slashed his finger across his throat with a hiss, cutting him off. “Don’t say that name around him,” he whispered, glancing at Van Dort. “For some reason, it weakens my hold. Charlie, that worthless little bugger, discovered it not long ago. Cost me a good plate and a couple hours' lost time I could have used fixing up Reginald a bit more." He drummed his fingers on the desk. "I’ve been working on destroying the trigger, but he’s being a stubborn bastard about it. I haven't even dared clear out her room yet, for fear seeing something of hers will set him off.”

“Oh." Jack was half-tempted to say it anyway, just to see what would happen, but refrained. Bumby was no threat on his own, but he knew enough well-to-do and important people to make Jack's life a living nightmare if he wanted. No sense jabbing a poker in the dragon's eye. "Can't say I'm too surprised. Blind man could tell he was in love with her.”

“Don’t remind me," Bumby grumbled. "The way he looked at her, touched her, carried on about her – sickening. Worse than his stories about that corpse bride." Was it him, or did Van Dort blink just once upon the mention of his old flame? Maybe it was his imagination, trying to do something with that stone face. "You know, I once caught them dancing in the front foyer? Where anyone could come in and see? Disgraceful! I was tempted to slap them both silly."

Jack smirked. "Somebody sounds jealous. Wanted her to fuck for yourself, huh?"

"Of course!" Bumby snapped, slamming his hand against the desk. "You've seen her, haven't you? And Thirteen. . . ." His eyes slithered over the young man's still form, a disturbingly hungry look in them. Jack had only seen that sort of desperate craving in opium addicts before. "I desired him almost from the moment I met him. I wanted them to be _mine_. Oh , I don't really have any objections to sharing them, especially if I can make tuppence for it, but – not with each other. Not with the way they – ugh." He picked up his papers and straightened them. "And no, to answer your question, I haven’t found her. Thirteen here was my main searcher, and – well, while I was always hoping to bring him under my control, parents or no, a certain incident forced me to do it earlier than I'd have liked. Not that I can truly complain, given his talents, but. . . ." He shrugged, then rolled his eyes. "And those twins from the asylum were utterly worthless. They couldn't even locate her rabbit after I had them search Thirteen's room and hers top to bottom. Though I confess, I'm not sure where he hid it either. . .no matter," he said with a shake of his head. "It's gone, and so are they now. As for our missing girl, I’m half-certain she’s gotten herself killed at this point. Or she’s retreated so far into insanity she’s been recommitted without me having to lift a finger. Either way, she’s out of my life.”

“Eh – shame," Jack commented. "Would have made a fine whore.”

“Don’t I know it. I was so looking forward to seeing her destroyed once and for all.” Bumby sighed, then reached out and caressed Van Dort's arm. “Still – I’ve picked up a fine consolation prize, wouldn't you say?”

“Would indeed,” Jack agreed, smirking – partially because he didn't dare do anything else. This whole situation had gotten much creepier than he'd signed up for. Van Dort now a walking flesh doll, and Bumby showing that he didn't have all his screws in as tight as he ought. _Gonna have to be careful as hell if we have any dealings. And never, ever get between him and someone he wants to fuck. Sheesh, who knew the crow had it in him?_

Despite the shudders inherent in the mess, however, Jack had to admit he was genuinely quite satisfied with everything that had happened. Yeah, he hadn't gotten to beat the tar out of his "favorite swell," or bury his cleaver in the toff's brain, but Bumby's therapy had proven itself just as much murder as that. Knowing that Van Dort wasn't ever going to have a thought of his own again – and was gonna get Nebuchadnezzer up his nancy on a regular basis – would do nicely for revenge. _Guess money can't get you out of everything, can it_ _,_ _swell?_ he thought, sparing one last look for the breathing taxidermy Van Dort had become. _And hey – if I'm lucky enough to spot Alice around, maybe I can get a favor off Bumby here for dragging her back around. Wouldn't mind having Sharpe forget she ever had a quarrel with me. . .or wanted anything 'cept to give me a good roll in the hay._ “I'll let you get around to enjoyin' it." He tipped his hat again, and headed for the door. "See you around, Angus.”

“You too, Jack.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quick nod to BTTF III in Jack's dialogue -- can you spot it?


	3. Bumby and the Ex-Fiancee

November 2nd, 1875

Threadneedle, London’s West End, England

3:06 P.M.

_Well, that was a waste of my time and money. Chatting with fat, irritable lawyers and combing through abandoned buildings aren't precisely my favorite activities. Though I suppose it was worth a look, just in case. After all, Thirteen might have thought that returning his stolen goods to the scene of the crime would be the best way to hide them. And at least now I can be sure Alice won't stumble upon the wretched toy if she is still out and wandering about. The last thing I need is that damned rabbit jolting her memory._ Dr. Angus Bumby smirked to himself as he proceeded down Threadneedle Street, on his way back to the square that separated the East End from the West. _On the other hand, what good would it really do her now?_

"Good day, Dr. Bumby," a passing man said, tipping his hat.

"Good day," Dr. Bumby nodded back. Ah, wasn't this something – the well-connected and well-to-do acknowledging him as one of their own, even if he didn't live in the same swanky neighborhoods they did. It was one of his favorite parts of being a famous psychiatrist. _Mrs. Van Dort would be green with envy,_ he thought with a little chuckle. _Especially if she knew from what source I derived what may pass as my "fortune." No chance of that, of course. I've fooled people far smarter and craftier than her. Though speaking of which. . . . "Dear Mr. and Mrs. Van Dort: I regret to say that your son has finally made good on his threats and disappeared into–"_

"Oh! I do apologize!"

Bumby rocked backward, hastily snatching at a nearby lamppost to steady himself. Goodness, how distracted had he been to be nearly bowled arse over teakettle (if he could be excused such crudity in his own head) by the mere slip of a woman standing before him? Though admittedly he'd always had a bit of trouble in that regard. He glared briefly at nothing as he remembered the bad old days of schoolyard bullies taunting and shoving him all around the courtyard, laughing as he staggered and wobbled like a drunken man. _Bloody balance issues. You'd think medical school would have given me a way to fix that, but no. . . ._ "Quite all right," he assured the lady once he had his feet properly under him again. "It happens to everyone eventually, doesn't it?"

"I suppose it does, but still, I'm sorry," the woman replied, twisting her hands together. "I should have paid more attention to where I was going."

"When it comes down to it, so should I," Bumby replied, frowning. There was something oddly – familiar about this young lady. He couldn't place what it was – in fact, he was quite certain he'd never met her before – and yet. . . . He scanned her form with the attention of Mr. Holmes, searching for clues. Her red-striped dress fit her well and was made of some superior material – that ruled her out as one of his neighbors. She was also prettier than the average woman he met on the mean streets of Whitechapel, with a tight-corseted waist and a heart-shaped face. A nob then – but surely if he'd met her at one of those little dinner parties he was occasionally invited to, he would have recalled her? He wasn't one to use his techniques on himself (no matter how much certain painful memories begged to be erased), and honestly, someone as monochrome as her would have stuck out in his mind. Her skin was white as paper, her hair such a pale brown one would be forgiven for mistaking her as youngly gray, and her eyes were such a dark blue as to be almost black –

Oh, _that_ was it!  The whole 'having walked out of a tintype' look – she resembled Thirteen! How curious! "Do forgive my staring, but – you wouldn't happen to be from Burtonsville, by any chance?" he asked, wondering if she was a relative the elder Van Dorts had forgotten to mention.

The woman blinked, taken aback – then, for some reason, her expression darkened. "I am," she said, dropping her arms to her side. "Or rather, I was." She extended a hand, her face clearly saying this was for politeness's sake rather than any actual desire to be friendly. "Mrs. Victoria White, nee Everglot. And if I don't miss my guess, you would be Dr. Bumby of the Houndsditch Home for Wayward Youth?"

"Why yes, I am," Dr. Bumby said, quietly amazed. What a curious coincidence – Thirteen's former fiancee, here in London! He never would have expected it. Still, it was rather gratifying that even minor nobility in some Godforsaken part of the country knew his name. He kissed her knuckles with a smile. "It is a pleasure to meet you."

"I would very much like to say likewise," Mrs. White said coldly as she withdrew her hand from his. "Unfortunately, I'm afraid your name is rather tainted to me, thanks to your involvement in keeping Victor a near-captive here."

For one moment, sheer unadulterated terror ruled Bumby's mind. _What?! But – how could she – no, no, I've only just gotten him how I like – have to lure her away have to silence her make sure she's told no one else –_ Then rationality set back in, and he gave himself a good mental kick. _Oh stop that, you idiot – it hasn't even been a full week yet! No one could possibly know. Perhaps the people in the market have noticed a change in his behavior, but why would they give a damn? And my customers are much more interested in the children than my personal assistant. Which is good, because half of them would probably snap him in twain if they tried their luck. . . . Unless this frail slip of a girl has been to the Home without my knowledge – an utter impossibility – there's no way she, or anyone else from his past, could have the slightest idea of his transformation. But then, why call him a "near-captive?"_ "I'm sorry, I don't know what you mean," he said smoothly, covering his curiosity and worry under a smooth layer of manners.

"I mean accepting his case from his parents," Mrs. White replied, folding her arms across her chest. "Thinking he even needs help in the first place."

Bumby arched an eyebrow. Well, this conversation was pulling no punches in its attempts to puzzle him. Thirteen had always described Victoria as being part of his delusions – a main player, in fact, near the end. If she'd come across him attempting to marry a dead woman in the local church, surely she would have to know _why_ he was here? Then again, given he'd been so clearly hallucinating during that long, dark day in January. . . . "Are you not aware of what your ex-fiance has suffered? I wouldn't fault your parents from keeping the details from you – it's a rather tragic mental breakdown. Though he'd managed to raise the dead, poor boy. I'm simply doing my best to–"

"It happened, Dr. Bumby."

Bumby stopped, startled. "Beg pardon?"

"It happened," Mrs. White repeated, eyes slitted and steely. "All of it. I can only personally vouch for the parts I saw, but it _happened_. Victor really did have a corpse bride."

. . .Oh, now this was _interesting_. Bumby couldn't help leaning forward a bit, adjusting his glasses to get a better look at this fresh lunatic before him. "You believe him?"

"As I just said, I saw some of it," Mrs. White said with a huff. "Surely he's told you about how he was driven to climb into my bedroom seeking help in the middle of the whole ordeal. Emily spirited him away right before my own eyes. And it was at my wedding breakfast to Barkis that the dead rose! Their scaring the wits out of my parents is the whole reason we left Burtonsville! You could write them if you're not willing to accept my word – they'd be happy enough to back me up!"

"Would they?" Her parents too? Truly fascinating. He'd heard of the tendency of certain disorders of the mind to be catching during his turn at university, but he'd never actually seen such a case up close and personal before. _Curiouser and curiouser, as Alice might say._

"Yes, they would. They have enough guilt over what they put me through to do that, at the very least." Mrs. White drummed her fingers against her arm. "Or you track down Pastor Galswells and ask him, if you like. He's certainly never tried to deny it, even if his version of events is rather twisted. He'd be only too happy to rant and rave at you."

"'Rant and rave' is correct," Dr. Bumby replied, smirking. "The Van Dorts told me during our initial interview that he'd lost his senses in response to their son losing his, and I'm much more inclined to believe their version of events than yours. If only because what I've heard of him from Master Van Dort never painted a picture of someone that stable to begin with."

Mrs. White sighed heavily. "Well, _I_ don't seem mad, do I?"

"Mrs. White, for a psychiatrist, that is always a loaded question."

That got a glare. "They haven't thrown me out of society yet," she returned. "And even if they have tossed Victor away, I don't think it was warranted. I had tea with him not that long ago, and he was quite himself. No hint that he belonged anywhere near an asylum at all."

"Forgive my impertinence for saying so, Mrs. White, but how would you know?" Bumby had to ask. "By every account, Master Van Dort's included, you knew each other for rather less than an afternoon."

Ah, there was some color for the young lady's cheeks. "True, but we lived across from each other for years. I may not have ever met him directly – my parents disapproved of me going outside much – but gossip and rumors and Mrs. Van Dort's voice carried even to my room. Everyone said he was shy and gentle and loved dogs and butterflies. No one ever hinted that his mind might be wrong."

"My dear Mrs. White," Dr. Bumby said soothingly, "minds aren't often _born_ wrong. More often, they're _made_ wrong – and with depressing ease, I've come to learn. The smallest misadventure may send them careening off course. Master Van Dort is already of a nervous disposition, and by all accounts he wasn't exactly anticipating his marriage to you with pleasure. Begging your pardon, of course, he has spoken of how you two fell quite nearly in love at first sight. But surely you can see how such anxiety could give way to something much worse under the right circumstances? Such as accidentally stumbling upon the corpse of a murder victim while practicing your wedding vows?"

"That only applies when the corpse herself doesn't tell you about her murder!"

Bumby jerked back, rocking dangerously on his heels from the force of Mrs. White's vehemence. Goodness, for such a spindly-looking girl, she had an almost Alice-level snarl. She directed it at him a moment more, then took a deep breath, pressing down on her skirts as she did. "I'm sorry," she said, in calmer tones. "This – this simply hits rather close to home for me. My own parents – well, the subject of straitjackets came up when I first tried to explain things to them. I can't help but feel for Victor, given the circumstances."

"Sympathy is one thing, Mrs. White," Dr. Bumby replied, taking off his glasses and cleaning them as he worked to get control of the conversation back. "Feeding someone's delusions – buying into them with such enthusiasm, no less – is quite another. He's suffering terribly as a result of his insistence that Emily existed. Don't you want to see him get well?"

"I didn't think he was sick in the first place!" Mrs. White shot back, getting heated again. "And even if he is, he's certainly not ill enough to justify anything like you tried on poor Miss Liddell!"

Danger signals began going off in Bumby's head. "You're – acquainted with Alice?"

"Didn't Victor tell you? I met her once, right as she was coming out of the Bow Street police station. Just in time to catch her as she fainted and bring her back to our rooms, in fact. That's the whole reason Victor and I had tea – he came looking for her, hoping to bring her home. Oh, and the poor man was in a horrible state over it all. . .I've never seen anyone look so sad since – well. Myself in the mirror when my wedding to Barkis dawned." She sighed, looking at the cobbles. "I wish we'd managed to keep a better eye on her. Everyone said she was in a very bad way, and it showed." She raised her face to him again, frowning. "And Victor seemed quite certain that you weren't helping matters."

So _she_ was the "nice young woman" whom had almost delivered Alice back into his hands! Trust Thirteen to keep the most important details to himself. "I'm afraid Master Van Dort has never been very approving of my treatment methods," Dr. Bumby said with a long-suffering huff. "But I assure you, everything I did to Alice was for her own good."

"Even those horrid medications? Victor was of the opinion they just made things worse for her."

"Even those. Alice is very, very ill, Mrs. White – more than you could ever imagine. Certainly more than Master Van Dort ever understood. Drastic measures must be used if we're ever to see progress." _Much to my annoyance. . .why must you be so stubborn, you wretched girl? I thought your desire to forget would make you child's play when you first came into my care. What happened between then and now?_ "You yourself acknowledge she was in a bad way when you two met. Did she suffer one of her hallucinations around you?"

"No, merely collapsed. . .but she escaped our hotel suite by climbing up the side of the building in a haze, according to our manservant," Mrs. White admitted reluctantly, twisting her hands together again. 

"There, you see? Does that sound like a mind that should be allowed to run wild?"

Mrs. White sighed in defeat. "No, it doesn't. Very well, I apologize for doubting your treatment of Miss Liddell. Psychiatry was never my strong suit." Her mouth tightened into a determined line. "But that doesn't change my opinion on Victor. I may not have known him long, but I know him well enough to be certain he doesn't belong in your care. At the very least, _he_ doesn't need 'drastic measures.'"

"Well, I can settle your mind on that score, at least," Dr. Bumby told her with a magnanimous smile. "I was toying with the idea of starting him on medication, but I've decided he doesn't need it after all. You're right in that his delusions – and please, grant me the privilege of calling them such; most people don't believe in the dead walking – aren't of a dangerous nature, and aren't we all the better for it. But they're deeply inconvenient in not allowing him to actually move on with his life. Hanging onto such fantasies only separates him from others and makes it harder for him to fit in – and judging by what I've heard, he struggles with that already. I'm just trying to help him be the best man he can be – and fortunately, we've recently made a breakthrough in that regard. He'll soon be right as rain."

Mrs. White was giving him that slitted-eyed look again. "Really. I must say it sounds like you've all finally bullied him into recanting the story just to get some peace."

"Heaven forbid," Dr. Bumby said, putting a hand to his heart. "I am a doctor, not some back alley thug."

"Hmph. Forgive me for not being immediately impressed by your title. One of the worst men I ever knew tacked on 'Lord' before his name. And there's the matter of how your colleagues treated Christopher when he went looking for help for Miss Liddell. For people dedicated to helping them, you all seem to have a very low opinion of the mad. Or the supposedly-mad."

Bumby sighed. "There will be no convincing you of my good intentions, will there? Very well, I shall take my leave and not bother you any further." He put on his smarmiest tone. "Thank you for a most _enlightening_ conversation, Mrs. White."

"My apologies for nearly running you over once again," Mrs. White replied, crisply polite. "And my thanks, small as they are, for deciding not to force any pills down poor Victor's throat. Perhaps I'll call on you and him later – just to see how he is. I know it's not typically accepted between ex-fiancees, but I would like to think of myself as one of his friends."

"I look forward to your visit," Dr. Bumby said, hiding a burst of annoyance and worry behind another smile. "But now I must go and take my tea. Good day to you, Mrs. White."

"Good day." With a quick twitch of her skirts, Mrs. White moved on, rejoining the ever-flowing river of people. Bumby watched her disappear into the rabble, then headed in the other direction, shaking his head. To think that Thirteen had _successfully_ convinced other people that the dead had risen! He wouldn't have believed it if he hadn't just been confronted with the evidence. That old pastor the elder Van Dorts had mentioned he'd dismissed as a mere outlier, of no real importance given that he seemed the type to seize on any opportunity to spread his rhetoric against sin. But the Everglots? A family that by all rights should have been the _last_ to believe his mad story? _Incredible how madness can be catching,_ he thought as he finally made it back to the market square. _Maybe Mrs. Van Dort is right and he really_ did _dig up a corpse and use it as a prop for his hallucinations to build on._ _I wouldn't put anything past him now._ _Young noble ladies are supposed to be delicate – the shock of seeing such a gruesome thing probably would be enough to add_ _le_ _the senses. Though Mrs. White doesn't seem that fragile. . ._ _dear God,_ _what a mouth on her. Not as bad as Alice's, but still. That husband_ _she mentioned_ _should teach her the edict that women are to be seen and not heard. I would do the job for him if the risks weren't too great._ His brow furrowed. _I wonder if she truly meant anything by that threat of appearing at the Home. Hmmm. . .well, the right suggestion or two, and I think she could be persuaded to leave without threatening my latest conquest. Particularly if I worked such a change in her old "love" that she'd happily depart wishing never to see him again. . . ._

He amused himself with these thoughts as he hailed a cart and rode home, arriving at Houndsditch slightly after four. Thirteen was waiting for him in his office, tray in hand. "Ah, Thirteen," he greeted the young man. "I met a friend of yours today. I don't suppose you remember Victoria White?"

Thirteen blinked once, then shook his head. "No, sir," he said in that lovely empty voice. "I remember nothing."

Bumby beamed. "Just as you should. You had nothing worth remembering in that silly head of yours. Least of all her." He took his seat, leaning back and pressing his fingertips together as Thirteen poured. "I pity the poor girl, I have to say. It seems you managed to drive her quite mad before I took you in. She believes the same ridiculous stories you used to. Actually argued with me about my treatment of you. You have no objections to what I do with you, do you?"

"No, sir," Thirteen replied, adding a splash of milk to the cup.

"Of course you don't. Toys don't object to how they're used. Being used is what they're for, after all." He watched Thirteen stir in his customary spoonful of sugar. "But yes – if it hadn't been for the fortunate occurrence of some strange man willing to take a lunatic for a wife, you probably would have ruined that girl's entire life." He laughed softly. "I really did the universe a favor by wiping your mind clean, didn't I? You truly are good only for a fuck."

Thirteen didn't respond – just tapped the spoon against the lip of the cup, then offered it to him. Bumby took it and sipped. "Ahhh. . .speaking of which," he added, with a significant nod down.

"Yes, Master." Thirteen rounded the desk and ducked underneath. Moments later, the doctor felt those long, nimble fingers working on the buttons of his pants. He took another sip and grinned.

Life didn't get better than this.


	4. Thirteen and His Mistress

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, this one gets an extra warning -- explicit sexual content lies ahead. It's not anything Bumby-related, I promise you that, but I figured I ought to let my readers know before they dove in.

November 5th, 1875

Whitechapel, London’s East End, England

2:13 A.M.

_Fweeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee–_

The unhappy whistle abruptly fell silent as Thirteen lifted the kettle from the stove. In one smooth motion he turned and emptied the boiling contents into the teapot sitting nearby. The tea bags nestled within bobbed in the steaming water like little clumps of dark seaweed, leaking flavor in delicate swirls. Thirteen covered them up with the lid and slipped the cozy over the pot to keep it warm. Bringing the kettle to the sink to cool before washing, he glanced at the old clock that sat on the counter. Its cracked and worn face read 3:52. Five minutes to let the tea steep, then three to bring it to Master. Perfect timing. Thirteen would have been proud of himself if he'd had the ability to feel such an emotion. But he was a toy, and toys were never proud. Toys were merely things, to serve and be used as their Master saw fit. There was no pride in that.

He waited patiently as the tea bags did their business, hands at his sides, eyes straight ahead. His mind was not in the habit of wandering – Master had seen to that – but today he was feeling a little more thoughtful than usual.Perhaps it had something to do with the news Master had imparted to him earlier. Apparently the Home would be gaining a new employee tomorrow afternoon – a young lady named June, a little older than he was (not that he remembered his age) and desperate for work. "She'll be taking over a few of your duties – though I can assure you, I'll always have use for your tea-making skills," Master had said, smirking like a cat who'd just had fresh canary for breakfast. "You'll be coming with me to pick her up from the train tomorrow. I might have to have you act more like a person upon her arrival, just to ease her into how we do things around here – but you know that you'll always be my toy, don't you?" To which Thirteen had said yes, before bending over the desk and accepting Master's subsequent attentions. Vaguely he wondered if the new arrival (something tried to stir in his brain then, but was sternly put down by Master's voice hissing _Forget. Obey._ ) would also be taking over those duties, then decided it wasn't important. Master was allowed to fuck whoever he wished. And he would not deny Master anything, even the need to secure a new toy. To deny Master was to be bad, and if there was one thing Thirteen was capable of wanting, it was not to be bad. Bad meant he was a failure. Bad meant he was worthless.

Bad meant the dark.

Fortunately, he did not think the dark was a threat to him today. Master was in a very good mood thanks to his potential new conquest, and Thirteen intended to make sure he stayed that way. He checked the clock, then lifted the lid on the teapot. Deep brown liquid stared back at him, steeped to perfection. He placed the pot on its customary tray, along with Master's cup and the milk and sugar. Then, balancing it carefully in his hands, he took it up to the main house.

The children were milling about as was typical of them, murmuring to each other and playing games in the halls. They scattered as he came through, though, clearing his path with speed and refusing to look him in the eye.One tried to call to him, but Master had told him to ignore anything they said, and so he did. He just kept walking, paying no heed to the anxious looks and whispers. On some level, he was aware that the children were afraid of him, but he never gave it any thought. He couldn't. His head was a mass of gray mist, swallowing any stray musings and letting only a few defining truths shine through. _Forget. Obey. You are a toy_. They were the mantras of his life, and he did not wish for anything more. 

He headed up the stairs to the second floor, and around the bend to his master's office. He knocked once to announce himself, then pushed open the door and – 

There was a woman there.

Thirteen stopped in his tracks, confusion breaking through the fog in his head. A woman? But – Master almost never had a woman over. Men, yes, quite regularly, inspecting the children for sale and haggling over prices. But Thirteen had only ever seen two women appear during his time as Master's toy. They'd both been rather ratty girls – hair tangled and limp with grease, clothes torn and smudged with grime, eyes hard and glimmering with greed – buying on behalf of their pimp. One had tried to touch him and had gotten slapped for her trouble, Master hissing that there was no way she'd ever be able to afford using _his_ toy.

This one, though – this one looked like she could manage it. Her long dark hair was neatly combed, and her clothes, while looking a touch threadbare, were at least clean and sporting even hems. Her skin was pale, seemingly untouched by the soot and smog outside, and her eyes – she had the greenest eyes Thirteen had ever seen. They regarded him quite seriously as he stood before her, traveling up and down the length of his body. Appraising him, perhaps. He was used to such looks from Master and his clients. He was a toy after all – he didn’t deserve any other sort of look. Perhaps she had purchased him for an hour or two. Master had offered him to that Splatter fellow, so he obviously wasn’t against loaning him out. . . . He set the tray down on the desk and stood quietly, awaiting command.

The woman stayed where she was for a moment, then came around the desk, lips set in a thin line. She stopped in front of him, looking him up and down again. Thirteen waited for her to speak, absently wondering if she was changing her mind about her purchase now that she'd seen him. He knew that he wasn’t to everyone’s tastes – a fair number of the men who visited Master had made fun of him, with comments like "prissy boy" and "too thin by half." Master always told him to ignore it. Toys didn’t care about those who didn’t want to play with them. All that mattered was giving pleasure to those who did. He existed only to serve Master, and whoever Master chose to share him with. Everything and everyone else was of no consequence whatsoever.

“Kneel.”

Her voice was firm, but not unkind. Thirteen promptly sank to his knees, the motion smooth and well-practiced. “Pull down your trousers and drawers.”

Another familiar command, although normally he was standing when it was given. He undid his pants and slid them down as far as he could, followed by his underwear. The air was a bit chill on his exposed skin, but he paid it no mind. Toys didn’t care about the weather. If Master told him to go out naked in the snow, he’d do it.

The woman paused then, examining what she'd revealed with a curious frown. Thirteen remained as he was, ready for the next order. _Probably “bend over,”_ his brain supplied in a moment of talkativeness. _Why else would she want my –_

“Stroke yourself.”

_. . .huh?_

Thirteen blinked, taken aback. His hand started to move toward his – nether regions – on automatic, but paused as soon as the command properly registered. Stroke himself? But – but Master always said – _“Toys don’t touch. Toys don’t feel pleasure.”_ While most of his training was something of a blur, he _could_ remember what had happened when Master himself had told him to touch – agonizing pain assaulting the area in question, and vicious words tearing up his mind ( _"Bad boy, Thirteen! I don't know why I bother, you're clearly unworthy to even be my toy"_ ), until finally all desire to even _look_ down there had died. He was merely a thing to be used – a doll, an object. Toys didn’t bother about their own pleasure. Toys didn’t have pleasure to bother about. But – but toys also obeyed, and she’d given him a command – 

“What’s wrong?”

He looked up to see the woman standing over him, watching him with what seemed to be an expression of genuine concern. But – that made even less sense than her command! People didn’t worry about toys. People merely used toys, then put them away until the next time. To see someone regarding him with worry – it was quite discombobulating. Nevertheless, part of him was glad for the chance to explain. Maybe Master hadn't properly explained the rules? “I’m not supposed to touch.” 

“Why not?”

“Toys don’t feel pleasure.” Shouldn’t that be obvious? A toy only felt pain when it disobeyed. Never pleasure. Toys were things, and things didn’t feel – 

A hand went under his chin, and his head was tipped up slightly to meet those brilliant green eyes. “Good thing you’re not a toy, then,” the woman said, an undercurrent of anger in her voice. Thirteen shrank away, fear swirling through the fog like snakes and filling him up. Oh no – was she going to call him bad? Send him away to the dark? He’d tried to obey, he really had – 

The eyes softened, sensing his distress. “I’m not angry at you,” the woman whispered, her free hand beginning to stroke his hair. “Maybe you don’t believe it – or can’t understand it just yet – but I’m trying to help you.”

Help? But – he wasn’t – he didn't need – did he? Without thinking, he leaned into her touch. The petting felt surprisingly nice – but it wasn’t supposed to, he wasn’t supposed to feel nice, this was all wrong, why – “M-Master–”

“No,” the woman said firmly. “You don’t have a master. That bastard out there stole what was rightfully mine, and now I’m taking you back.”

Rightfully – so – _she_ owned him? But – but that _couldn’t_ be right, Master would never – ugh, he was so confused, his head was starting to hurt – 

“Shhhhh.” She pulled him close, pressing his cheek against her chest. “I know it’s all very hard for you to understand right now, but trust me – if you belong to anyone, you belong to me.” Her hand continued its steady stroking, going from the top of his head all the way down the curve of his shoulder. “Which means you obey my commands, not his. And I’m commanding you to stroke yourself and feel good about it. That’s easy enough, right?”

With her arms around him, a warm, comforting shield against the rest of the world, it certainly seemed like it – but Thirteen's gaze couldn’t help but flick back toward the door. Master was sure to be out there, and if he saw this – 

“Victor.” Her eyes captured his again. “Don’t worry about him. Stroke.”

Victor? Who was – The moment of confusion broke as he found his hand wrapping around a body part long-neglected and beginning to tug. And once the motion started, he found it impossible to stop. He blamed the way those green eyes bored into his, holding him helplessly entranced. The way she looked at him, all power and authority but also filled with – affection? He thought that was right – it was inconceivable to even think of disobeying her. _The hit’s coming it must be she’s obviously a test to see if you’re still a good toy and you’ve just failed so she’s going to slap you and call you bad and you’ll have to spend the – the r-rest of the day in – in the – in the d-d-_

A groan involuntarily escaped his lips as his hand continued its slow strokes. Oh – this _did_ feel good. His – his _cock_ was just getting harder and harder underneath his fingers, coming to attention after its long nap. . .and now it was leaking and making itself nice and slick, easier for him to rub and pull it. . .his eyes started to close as his breathing got heavier –

“No, no, eyes open,” the woman whispered, hand back in his hair. “Keep looking at me, all right? I want to see you come. You’re going to stroke until you come, and it’s going to feel absolutely bloody amazing. And I want to see it.”

His eyes obligingly opened again, focusing on hers. Or, well, trying to – it was getting increasingly hard to focus on anything except the sensation of his hand moving from base to tip. He did the best he could, though. “You h-have pretty eyes,” he gasped out in between strokes.

The edges of said eyes crinkled up, a sign she was probably smiling. “You’ve told me that before, but it’s nice to hear it again.”

Had he? Thirteen bit his lip. He couldn’t remember. . .but then he couldn’t remember a lot of things. There was a wall across his mind, built by Master, strong and imposing and – and feeling a little shaky, actually, as he continued to rub, his hand moving faster now as his nerves lit up with pleasure. Was that why Mas – that man had told him he couldn’t feel good? Because Bumby knew that if he was allowed to be happy, the wall would start to crumble?

“Good boy, Victor,” the woman whispered, and even though he couldn’t understand why she kept calling him that, it was pure bliss to hear the words “good boy” applied to him for once. Bumby never praised him, only punished – a true owner would praise, wouldn’t she? A true owner would care for him, would make him happy, would – would love him – the wall shook again, cracks forming across the bricks, and suddenly he realized he _did_ love this woman, loved her with all his heart and soul – 

“Oh, you’re right on the edge, aren’t you?” He was, he really was, all he was conscious of was the pleasure and his hand and those beautiful eyes – “Remember my name, Victor. You can send yourself over once you remember my name.”

Her name – oh God what was her name – his fingers stroked and pulled futilely as he tried to recall. Victor was him, he knew that much now, she wouldn’t keep calling him that if he wasn’t – but who was she? He knew, somewhere deep down inside he knew – his body begged him for release, his muscles tight and ready, his cock hard as a rock, but he was frozen on the edge until he remembered – Then out of nowhere it came back to him, blazing forth in perfect blissful glory, and he opened his mouth to cry it out as the pleasure finally overran him –

And then he woke up.

Well, sort of – the sudden return of consciousness was rather short-circuited by the fire-hot burst of joy rocking his body. He managed to slap a hand over his mouth to stifle his gasps and moans. Oh, this felt so good. . .but if Master heard, he’d be punished. Even though it wasn’t even his fault, he didn’t know why his body was doing this – he knew he’d been dreaming (but why? He didn’t usually dream), but the details were fading fast, shoved heartlessly under the layers of fog – 

“Thirteen?”

The terror that shot through him was enough to bring him back down to Earth, his – manhood – squirting one last time before subsiding. He jerked his head to see Master frowning deeply at him from the doorway, eyes shadowed. “I – I’m sorry – don’t know why – just h-happened–” he babbled as he got his breath back.

Master glared a moment more, then shook his head. “I suppose I can’t blame you for something that happened in your sleep,” he muttered, though he sounded like he really wanted to. “But it does deserve a round of retraining. Get up and come to my office. Your mind needs a reminder of its purpose in life, I think.”

“Yes, sir.” Thirteen almost jumped to his feet. An angry glance reminded him to cover the stain on his pajamas, then he followed Master's crooked finger out into the hall. As he did, the image of a pair of green eyes swam in front of his face. For some reason, they made his chest ache. Something was important about them – something connected to a – a name. . . .

He shook his head and shoved them out of his thoughts.  No, they couldn’t be important. Toys weren’t trusted with anything important. And toys didn’t need to worry about names either. _Forget. Obey._ He was just there to be fucked when the time came. You didn’t need a name for that.

Still, the eyes lingered at the back of his mind, refusing to let him go. Thirteen ignored them the best he could. Master’s retraining would make him forget all about them soon enough.

He just hoped it didn’t hurt _too_ much.

  


The End


End file.
